Wish You Were Here
by Lady Feylene
Summary: A twisted love triangle set against the backdrop of war, and beyond. Not as sprawling as it sounds. Slash. Dark.
1. Default Chapter

  
  
  
  


Title: Wish You Were Here

  
  


Disclaimer: Characters herein do not belong to me. They belong to other people with a lot more money and clout then me.

  
  


Author: Lady Feylene

  
  


Warning: Slash. Male on Male intercourse, rape, a little bit of torture. And much twistedness.

  
  


Pairings: Lucius/Remus, Severus/Remus, hints of Sirius/Remus.

  
  


Dedication: This is for...eh. That nice guy at the bike rental place who only charged me an hour's rent for an all day rental. Gods bless a large rack and low cut shirts. ;-)

  
  


Author's Note: Written in beautiful Yosemite Valley. I was going to do a lot more writing, but I haven't had time. Now, on my last night, listening to a Pink Floyd CD, I was inspired. This is written in first person present, but it spans years and years and years. It's Severus speaking, just for a heads up. It sort of dark, sort of weird. I like it though

  
  


Wish You Were Here

  
  


Sometimes I wish you were here.

  
  


Not here in this room, you *are* here in this room. But here beside me, rather then beside him. In all honesty, I can't see what appeal he holds for you. He is a cruel man, and I cannot entertain notions that he treats you kindly at all. I have seen the bruises on your face as many times as not, and I am sure there are plenty of bruises that I can't see.

  
  


He is an attractive man, yes. I will give you that much, but looks are not everything. In fact, looks mean very little. And *I* am not unattractive. But your eyes fall to him, not to me. 

  
  


What does he give you? A warm bed, promises of safety? And a gilded cage. You are not a fool. You must see he thinks of you as an animal. A very exotic and tame animal, but an animal. I suppose you are. But aren't we all, when it comes right down to it?

  
  


What is there, that separates man from the animals? I have traveled the world, and seen many things. I have seen man and beast, and I see little difference between the two. No. This is not true. An animal-one without rational thought as we see it-does not make excuses for the evils it does. It does no evils, simply acts in the name of survival. 

  
  


Are you, then, acting in the name of survival? Did you fear, for your life? I don't see why. You hardly were a soldier. You perhaps scored a walk on role in war, but nothing more. Or did you see yourself backed against the wall? An animal in a trap. And you would rather lick the hand that offers to feed you then to bite it.

  
  


You looked down upon me because I killed. And what do you think he does? He does as his lord orders him, as I did once as well. And he has killed far more then I. You must smell it on him, when he comes to your bed of nights. The stink of blood and death and hatred.

  
  


These cannot be arousing scents to you. Or can they? Perhaps they call to a certain primal aspect of you. Do you ever have the need to rip, to tear, to kill? do you long have prey fall before you, snapping in your jaws as blood spurts across your tongue?

  
  


Are you rough in bed, as your species would dictate, or are you tender as your nature would have one believe? I mix of the two, I am certain. 

  
  


But it is not my place to know these things. It is his. And he knows I have looked upon you recently, with eyes not of loathing but of interest. And he flaunts you. His hand on your knee, his lips against your ear. And always his eyes upon me.

  
  


You must see what it is he does. But you laugh and smile, and oftentimes will turn your head to catch his lips. Do you enjoy the pain? Is that it?

  
  


You must. And what is it, that he does to you? Do his fingers leave those bruises, or something far more sinister? Perhaps he lashes you, strikes at you. Bites you. Do you bleed, for him? And when he takes you, does he prepare you, or does he simply thrust into you like an animal in heat?

  
  


That's what it comes down to, doesn't it. You've traded in any claim you once had to humanity. You allowed yourself to be collared, leashed and chained to his side. And he won't let go of you easily, when you realize you've made a mistake. He will hold onto you. And then what?

  
  


Will you spit and hiss and strike against him? Or will you subdue yourself, resign yourself to a life as a lap dog?

  
  


I would never make you my dog. My bitch, perhaps, but never my dog.

  
  


You're looking at me. I cannot read your eyes. I have never been able to read your eyes. In school, in passing, here, now. But you do dip your head to me, and slyly grin when he isn't looking. I am inclined to believe you are flirting with me.

  
  


You are. You excuse yourself. He is busy. Papers of some sort. He pretends as if he were important. He is not. I wait. I make my excuses. He is oblivious.

  
  


You are waiting for me in the hallway. You walk away, casting eyes over your shoulder to see if I follow. I do. How can I not? 

  
  


But it is not what I think. You shove me roughly against the wall. You tell me not look at you in that way, that I am asking for trouble. I kiss you. You turn against me. You truly are an animal. You do not hi with a closed fist, but with an open palm, nails out. You strike like a woman.

  
  


And then you draw back, apologize, and tell me it's for my own good.

  
  


I tell you that you don't know what's good for me. I could force you, if I truly wanted to. But I have desire to drag you unwilling to my bed. That is what he does, not I.

  
  


You look saddened, all of a sudden. I am tempted to bare my soul to you, but I do not. I am not a stupid man. I may be infatuated with you, but I am not going to throw all caution to the wind on account of that. You raise your hand to my cheek, and your fingers are rough. I can feel callouses on the pads of your fingers. You kiss me, and it's a bittersweet thing. You sigh against my lips, and you lean your head against my shoulder and say things softly that I cannot hear. But my arms go around you, and I hold you. And then you pull away, shaking your head.

  
  


You must go back to him. 

  
  


***

  
  


Another day. Near the end. You are still by his side, but your eyes dart here and there. An animal looking for escape. His lord has been by recently. You hid. I do not blame you. And now it is night, and he and I are speaking on many things. War, life, religion...

  
  


The hour grows late. He invites me back to his rooms. A nightcap, he claims. I know it is something different, but morbid curiosity urges my on. I did not throw my lot in with Voldemort for no reason, I have my cruelness. All men do, I simply do not deny mine.

  
  


He leads me to his chambers. You are there. Naked, spread upon the bed. You are an Adonis, smooth and golden. And you seem surprised to see me. You move as though to cover yourself, but he stops you.

  
  


He tells me I may watch.

  
  


He directs me to a chair. He moves over you, and I can tell that you are frightened. He either does not care, or does not see. Or perhaps neither. Perhaps he enjoys it. He holds you down, his hands rough on your body. He does make you bleed.

  
  


You hardly make a sound, through it. I wish I could say it disgusts me, but as his knifes cuts thin swathes across your body, I do become aroused. You whimper, straining away from the blade. He laughs. He threatens you, his voice like silk. I yawn, as though bored. He laughs. 

  
  


He asks me if I am enjoying myself, and I shrug. He cuts you deeper.

  
  


He is clever with his knife. He twists it inside of you, before climbing atop you himself. There is hatred in your eyes. You lay beneath him like a board. When he is done, he laughs again, and offers you to me.

  
  


I tell him I do not wish a battered corpse for my bed mate. He scowls, kicking you. Tells you to show some life. You growl. 

  
  


He claims you are broken. He has no more use of you. How funny. He rarely grows bored with his toys so easily. He has only had you what, a few months? But at least he has grown tired of you.

  
  


I ask what plans to do with you. He shrugs, and flips his knife casually in his hand. I move to stop him. I will take you, I tell him. Once you are healed, you will suit my tastes well. He shrugs, offhandedly. He has no use of you, and makes a gift of you.

  
  


I force you to dress, and take you to my rooms. You will not look at me. You know I have saved your life. You rest. You heal. You come to my bed when you are well, but you are somewhere far away when I make love to you. I ignore it. I take you many times, delighting in the feel of your skin beneath my hands, my lips.

  
  


I release you after the war. I give you the option of staying by my side, or of leaving. You leave me.

  
  


What did I expect? I watched you go. You never looked back. You are an animal, Lupin. An animal seeking whatever survival it can. You gave yourself to me, knowing I would keep you alive. I never asked for your body, I never would have. But you felt there was a need. You owed my a debt.

  
  


There was no debt. I am not an animal. A gift is a gift, Lupin, regardless of what it is. You likened me to Lucius, and that was a mistake. No matter. I will play your little game, and I will pay you back in kind. You've wounded me, though I doubt you see it as such. 

  
  


Did you ever care for me? I doubt it. You traded in once more. That is all you ever do. Trading once bed for another, one life for the next. And you smile through it all, toss your head, laugh a little. You play the part of the willing whore, refusing cold comfort for a warm bed.

  
  


***

  
  


You have not changed. Looking at you now, as you take that damned potion, you have not changed. You are, in essence, Albus' whore. Though it is not your body you're selling, it is your talents. You have no true skills as a teacher, but you are homeless and penniless, and you will take whatever is offered to you. And even now you are batting your lashes at me, and smiling and cocking your head. How many times did I wish that you were here, in the school? And hated myself for it.

  
  


Whatever desire I had for you once comes crashing back, unbidden. But I ignore it. Stalk out, cursing your name. I hate you. I hate what you do to me. I swore I would never look upon you with warm eyes again and now you are here, inviting me to share your bed once more.

  
  


I wonder if your friends ever saw you for what you really were. Is that why you ran with them? Because they protected you, your secret. They gave you a sense of family, a sense of belonging. All that is gone now. All you have left now, is me.

  
  


And I will not make myself available to you. I loathe you.

  
  


***

  
  


I loathe you. Even as you writhe under me, moaning my name, I hate you. You've brought me to this. You've broken through to me, and I have lost control. You were lucky, the last time. The boy was there. You could not present yourself to me with the boy there. But this time...

  
  


Tis time you were waiting. Tired, and saddened, with haunted eyes and a tired smile. You offered e a drink, and fool that I am I accepted. You claimed you just wanted a bit of company, to sit and chat with a familiar face. I relented.

  
  


You were subtle. Your hand on my knee, every so often. Your eyes. Large and timid and so damn hunted. And then you began to cry. It was in earnest. I sighed, grumbled, and placed a hand on your shoulder. You collapsed into me. And then your lips were on mine, your hands slipping my robes off, and I gave into you.

  
  


Now we lie together, and you bury your head in my chest. I can still feel your hot release against my thigh. You are warm in my arms, and frailer in my arms then you were so many years ago. And there are more scars across your body. You ask me if this was all right, and I give a dry barking laugh. You ask me now?

  
  


It was all right. I find I have been in much need of an intimate encounter. And you are all I have left, as well. The only other lover I ever took fell to the Aurors, killed before his prime. I miss him still. You must miss Black. I know he shared your bed in school. But that is not something to think of now. 

  
  


You lift your head to me, and kiss me once more. You ask me to stay with you. That is dangerous, but I agree.

  
  


***

  
  


I should have known it was as before. You go running back to Black, the moment the opportuniy presents itself. But that's all right. I do what I can, and though I do not get your lover the punishment he deserves, I at least get you removed from this school.

  
  


You come to me, before you leave. You plead with me to listen to you, to allow you to explain. I do not care for your excuses. I pull you to me, I kiss you, and then I take you roughly over my desk. I will take what you have given me, and nothing more. You have given me your body, that is all. Do not offer me false words of caring or tenderness. There is no caring or tenderness in you. I find my release, and shove you roughly away. I do not care for yours. I do not care for you. I have fallen for your lies and pretty eyes one too many times. First with Lucius, now with Black. And I do not care for it at all.

  
  


I send you on your way, without another word.

  
  


~~~~~~~~~~


	2. Remus' POV

  
  
  
  


Warning: Still some slash references.

Dedication: For the Remus/Lucius list...the only people who really have a major interest in this story.

  
  
  
  


Summary: We see the story from Remus' point of view.

  
  
  
  


Spoilers: PoA

  
  
  
  


Author's Note: This is a look at the same situation, seen through different eyes. It takes place after the end of the first part, but it looks back over the events. It's from Remus' POV. I'm thinking of maybe doing everyone's perspective, but Lucius' is a little hard to grasp.

  
  
  
  


Wish You Were Here

  
  


Second Edition

  
  


I know what you think of me, and you're wrong. I never, once, meant to use you. At least, not consciously. Oh, I realize now that I did it on a subconscious level, but it was never intended. You took me in, I never came to you. What did you expect of me, really, when you released me? I'm sorry, but you were, for all intents and purposes, my 'master'. I was not, at that point, overly fond of you.

  
  


I knew you felt for me, you were always looking. Even when I was with him. *Especially* when I was with him.

  
  


I suppose you wondered why I shared his bed. He was captivating, to me. And I didn't realize just what sort of arrangement I'd entered into. He was charming and handsome, and he won me over easily. And...it was a difficult time. I never told myself I didn't know what he was, I did. I knew exactly what he was.

  
  


A powerful and influential man. And he was fond of me, he found me attractive. To me, who has always been the quiet one, the fading one, that was a thrill. And I fell for his words and his glances and everything else, because that is how I am. A part of me *does* crave attention. Or did, anyway.

  
  


I was young and foolish, and I think you were as well. We all made mistakes back then. And he did begin to get rough with me, and he did hurt me. But I was trapped. It was stay and be hurt, or leave and be killed. If I am to die by being killed, I wish it to be for a cause, not my own comfort.

I was very thankful to you. I know he would have killed me, that night, had you not intervened. But I know also you enjoyed what you saw. I could smell your arousal, your interest. My blood made you hot, my pain made you lust for me.

  
  


Of course I came to your bed. Why else did you keep me? Deep down, it was what you wanted. If you were truly guilty, you would have turned me away. It was obvious I was coming to you out of duty, not out of love or tenderness.

  
  


But you released me. I thank you for that, more then anything. You let me go, you let me get away from it all. You must realize you brought me painful memories.

  
  


Do you know, how you looked to me, that night? Sitting there, watching me...it was perverse. The way you looked at me, te way your eyes followed my blood as it stained the sheets...

  
  


I once asked you if you were afraid of me. You told me it was hard to be afraid of something you'd fucked. Well let me tell you Severus, from the other end it can be terrifying. You frightened me. Did you ever wish to do those sorts of things to me?

  
  


And that last time...did you even realize you were hurting me? I don't think you did. You were angry, and I don't really know why. I *did* have feelings for you, then. Maybe not for the right reasons, again I realize this looking back. I was lost and alone, and you were there.

  
  


And you had been kind to me. There were nights when you were tender, and treated me as a lover. 

  
  


I'll admit to you, my heart spent a long time longing for Sirius. I loved him, back in our schooldays. And I think he may have loved me, but it's far gone now.

  
  


And now we're back again. The war has thrown us together once more, but now on the other side. And you won't even look at me. I don't know what I feel for you anymore. Some form of affection, and of course I fear you again. You practically raped me the last time I saw you. No, you can't be afraid of what you fuck, but what you fuck can certainly be afraid of you.

  
  


I don't know why I keep staring at you. Because you're beautiful, and because I can. You refuse to look at me. You won't even acknowledge me. Which of course makes me want you to even more. I'm going to approach you. And as we all stand, I think you know it.

  
  


You move, very quickly to leave the room. But I catch up to you, and I lay my hand on your arm. You look like you want to hit me. You tell me to leave you be, there is nothing to be said between us.

  
  


Subtlety does not work on you. I learned that back in school.

  
  


I want you, I tell you. I lean in close and whisper in your ear. You look shocked. I like seeing you that way. But you sneer, and shake me off, and tell me I'm being childish.

  
  


*I'm* being childish? As if this isn't all some twisted game. It is. It always has been.

  
  


But you don't realize all of it. You don't realize that I loved Lucius, before he turned his knife on me. Maybe I wasn't wise in loving him, but I did. I'm sure you think he offered me promises, but he didn't. None other then the promises of the flesh. And of course all that emotional baggage that goes along with it.

  
  


I loved him. I loved him deeply, for a short time. And then...he changed. Voldemort had a hand in that, I'm well aware of it. Not magically, but psychologically. I can't blame him for that. What happened, was not his fault. 

  
  


And I don't think you know quite how long Lucius and I were together. It was far longer then months. It was only in those months that you saw me, when he had changed.

  
  


You must know. He was...he was never soft, or tender. But he was not so cruel. He certainly enjoyed to play the dominant, but he never attempted to hurt me or take joy from pain. Not until Voldemort began seeing him personally. 

  
  


Lucius never told me, what happened. But that's when he started his little 'games.' You never knew, still don't know, all of this. But I do. So I am looking at thing's differently. You saw him as a monster, who abused me. I saw him as my lover, turned horribly wrong. 

  
  


It hurt, when he...when he tossed me aside so casually. And when I realized he would have killed me. But still I do not blame him. You do, and you blame me.

  
  


I just shake my head at you. You won't listen, if I try and tell you all of this. You'll scoff and storm off, like you're trying to do now. Because I am being 'childish'. You've never been betrayed so thoroughly by someone you love. And it has taken me a very long time, to allow myself to feel for someone again. And oddly enough, my heart has chosen you.

  
  


But you don't care. You see only what you want to see. And you see me as an animal, don't you? Some dog, beaten by it's former master, cowering for the next friendly hand? I assure you, that's not what I am. I am abused yes, but not in the way you think.

  
  


The body heals, the heart does not.

  
  


But you ignore me. And you walk away, mumbling to yourself.

  
  


Fine. Be this way. Be the child you accuse me of being. Turn your back on me, ignore me, pretend you don't hear and don't care. I tell myself you will come around. Maybe you will. But I'm not going to waste my time. I don't want to be hurt again.

  
  


You did the same thing he did, but what excuse do you have? He had Voldemort at least. You have only your own bitter pettiness. I can forgive Lucius far easier then I can forgive you.

  
  


Oh well. 

  
  


I suppose it will all work out in the end. 


End file.
